


Unwritten

by missmungoe



Category: One Piece
Genre: (because I am who I am), (implied Shanks/Makino), F/M, OP world & story is the same, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, except you're born with your soulmate's first words to you on your skin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-25 20:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9843950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: She's used to flattery and pretty words.What she gets from him is...not that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I won't lie, I have a thing for soulmate AUs.
> 
> This was written for a prompt I got on tumblr, asking for Hancock/Mihawk & tattoos with your soulmate's first words to you. How could I possibly resist??

She hates the mark.

She didn’t, at first. When she was young and had seen nothing of the world she’d been enamoured with the idea — the romantic notion, if not necessarily the thought of there being a  _person_ out there with her words to match, somewhere on their body. Although she’s often wondered what they are, her words. Something charming or profound, maybe. Hopefully something better than the ones  _she_  has, curving in a gentle arc at the base of her neck.

 _Beauty is a relative concept_ , it says, in a neat, cursive script — not elaborate, but elegant in an efficient sort of way, a pen belonging to someone who wouldn’t bother with flourishes and grand gestures, but then she could have deduced that from the words themselves. And they’re curious things, or at least they were, in the beginning; an odd remark for someone to offer anyone, and that it should be the first thing they’d say to  _her_  doesn’t exactly provide her with any clues, not to what kind of setting or conversation would naturally spark such a debate, or to whoever would feel the need to interject with such a statement.

It’s no one on Amazon Lily, and it doesn’t take her long to determine that much, which leaves the wide open sea, and a world she can’t wait to explore — until she does, and the sea shows her no mercy, only hard touches and leering looks. And  _beauty_  isn’t relative at all; it’s a condemnation, a sentence and a curse, and in the end it’s a far uglier brand to bear than the one they burn into her back.

She returns to the home she knows a little harder, a little colder, and with another promise etched into her skin. And there’s nothing to be enamoured with now. Instead what she feels is dread, and  _fury_ , the latter preferable because it gives her some control, at least — some semblance of being allowed to  _choose,_  her feelings if nothing else.

But the years pass and she braves the sea again, and there’s no one to claim that part of her — thankfully, although she feels ready to put up a fight, should anyone step forward. Because she’s had enough of men laying their claim on her body and  _this—_ this fiercely private thing,  _her soul—_

No. She’s yielded a lot, pride and dignity and bodily autonomy, but she won’t yield that; not to anyone. And for twenty-eight years the world allows her to keep it, that last vestige of herself that’s survived without a single scar to show for her struggles.

Then—a briefing from her new employers, a cold conference chamber with sterile walls and floors and the windows thrown wide open, the sun warm on her back where her hair falls, a physical shield to keep eyes from lingering—

“You are a credit to the myths that surround your people,” the Government official says; the one who’s been sent to oversee that her inauguration into the Warlord ranks proceeds without a hitch. “Truly. A remarkable beauty.”

The compliment slithers across her skin, then off it, leaving no trace. It’s entirely familiar, and she’s heard it spoken a hundred times — the same promise wrapped in different voices, different words. But there’s relief, too, Hancock finds, because it’s not  _those_  words, and so it’s another soul off her list; another man she doesn’t need to worry about.

“I am aware,” she says, not sparing him a second glance, and doesn’t care that it’s cold or unwelcoming; they didn’t invite her to make friends. Although she’s still careful to keep her voice level; she’s not there to make enemies, either.

A scoff then, somewhere off to her right, and she inclines her head in time to catch the gleam of a pair of sharp golden eyes, and a gaze that passes over her once, an entirely perfunctory sweep, before it leaves her, the shortest glance a man has ever offered, and—

“Beauty is a relative concept,” the man called Hawk-Eyes says, and breezes past her without another word, entirely unmindful of the way the remark falls, not hard like a slap but damning all the same, although for Hancock it’s not the way he speaks it but _that he speaks it at all_ that leaves her rooted in place, her earlier irritation forgotten and nothing even resembling a coherent response to offer in turn, although she has no mind to look for it.

And it would have been kinder, she thinks later, heart scraped hollow with her newfound knowledge and the strings of fate tightening like shackles she hasn’t felt in a decade — if he’d simply unsheathed his sword and run her through.

 

—

 

She doesn’t tell her sisters —  _can’t_  tell her sisters, finding the words wrapping around her tongue, holding it down. Because she doesn’t know how to even being to explain it — to explain  _him_ , when she doesn’t know what to think, or what to believe.

He’s—hard. Like her, but in a different way. It’s not the hardness of a shield, rough-hewn from a life of blows and scrapes; it’s a blade’s edge, sharp and cutting, and she doesn’t know what to make of him. He doesn’t even look at her, and doesn’t treat her with anything but the same indifference that he shows the rest of their colleagues. And it should be a relief but it’s isn’t. Not when she  _knows._

She looks for a mark — to see what they are, the words she’s meant to say to him. They haven’t exchanged a single utterance since his first words to her, but maybe…maybe if she knew what she’s meant to say, she can twist fate; can bend it to her will and bidding. She’s good at that — bending wills.

But if her mark is on him somewhere, it’s nowhere she can see — not without resorting to drastic measures, anyhow. And of course she knows the tricks, and if he were any other man it would be an easy enough ruse to pull off. But the fact that he isn’t — that he probably wouldn’t have accepted if she’d offered, ruse or no ruse…

She doesn’t know what to make of that, more than anything.

But with no way of knowing what she’s meant to say, Hancock makes a point of avoiding him altogether — of not exchanging so much as a single word, because if she can’t force fate to do her bidding, perhaps she can circumvent it somehow.

And it’s…surprisingly easy, she finds. And it might have rankled had it been anyone else, but he seems as set on ignoring her as he is on ignoring everyone else around him, and so she doesn’t have to strain herself to avoid speaking to him, or worry that he’ll find her actions at all suspicious. If anything it becomes a mutual understanding, a thing of kindred spirits, and she might have laughed at the irony if she hadn’t been quite so frustrated.

Because the most infuriating part is that she’s  _curious_ , and enough so that she grows careless — tempted to the point where she no longer makes an effort to leave the room first. Instead she lingers after the few meetings they’re summoned to attend, to her sisters’ collective surprise, although she has no explanation to offer when questioned.

And she doesn’t know what it is she expects will come from her actions, other than disaster, but if Mihawk notices her poorly concealed interest he doesn’t let on, and nothing has changed in that regard. He offers his remarks sparingly, saying only what’s strictly necessary, but his voice drags her eyes whether she likes it or not. And it’s not until he’s striding out, gazed fixed on anything but her, that Hancock realises what it is that she’s doing.

She catches a glimpse of the mark in the bath later, the reflection in the full-length mirror tossing back the ugly truth in red and scarred flesh, and above it, curving in that neat scrawl—

She breaks the mirror, watching the pieces shatter against the tilted floor, and pretends she can’t still hear the cadence of his voice wrapped around the words, like the mark has etched itself into her memory as well as her skin.

And it doesn’t matter that he’s not what she’d expected, she decides. It had never once  _mattered_ , not before she knew, and it doesn’t have to matter now. She’d made a vow never to be bound to another being again, and even if fate won’t allow her to live in ignorance, it doesn’t mean  _he_ needs to know. Barring the occasional meeting there’s a whole sea between them, and she’ll keep it that way — will live out her life, free of this as she is of any other shackles, real or imaginary, and he’ll be none the wiser.

Because who would tell him?

 

—

 

The battle at Marineford brings with it a curious sort of peace, if only because she’s taken the space he’s started to take up in her mind and offered it to someone else.

She loses track of Luffy in the chaos, but her heart sits, a calm weight in her chest. _Calm,_  because this is a choice she’s made for herself. No brand will ever decide her fate, not again, and even if her soul could never be his she still has her heart left to give.

But, thoughts elsewhere, she doesn’t notice the attack before it’s too late to dodge it, an oath tearing loose as her heart lurches into her throat—

The shadow thrown by his sword hits her before the realisation of what has happened, the effortless swing of the massive blade leaving a keening wail, a death-knell before her opponent crumbles to the ground, and the spray of blood is such a violent display for a moment all she can do is stare.

Then he’s sheathed it again, the smooth arc it makes through the air leaving a small rain of red droplets in its wake. The obsidian seems to suck up all the light, the polished gleam of it without so much as a scratch, and in the second before he turns Hancock catches her reflection in the metal, and feels something recoil within her at the sight.

Mihawk doesn’t offer her so much as a glance, let alone a comment — not a reprimand for leaving herself open, or anything more condescending, the sort of thing she might have expected from any of their colleagues. But—it’s still infuriating, his silence somehow more condemning, as though she isn’t worth the effort of a single remark. And if he’s so indifferent he might as well have minded his own damn business, she decides, and before she can stop herself—

“I can watch my own back,” she snaps, and would have followed up with a withering glare, if it hadn’t been for his reaction.

She realises all too late what she’s done — sees it in the sharp turn of his head, this too eerily like a hawk’s, before his entire face shifts, hard expression yielding for a single second, to make room for genuine surprise.

It’s the first thing she’s ever said to him, and he recognises the words.

Realisation hits her like a physical blow, and the dread that follows is enough to make her knees feel like they’re about to give out from underneath her. But she’s held her head high through worse situations than this, and it’s that stubborn thought that keeps her from crumbling completely, under the damning knowledge that in her moment of inattention she’d left herself open in more ways than one.

A distraction arrives before he can open his mouth to speak, the ground tilting beneath their feet, and she grabs the opportunity and doesn’t look back, pushing through the rubble and the bodies strewn in her path, her strides certain and eating up the ground and her back so straight it feels like her spine might snap from the pressure.

 _Co-ward_ , her heart beats, an unsteady rhythm to the drumming sound of the battle raging around her, the din drowned by her own thoughts. And she feels the moment his eyes leave her, feels the physical reprieve of his gaze, a relief so great it almost makes her stagger. Although if it’s of his own volition or because she’s slipped out of sight that he lets her go, she can’t say, but thinks it might be the latter —  _fears_  it, and the promise that accompanies the thought, cinching tight and unyielding around the last sliver of freedom that she’s held onto for so long.

Twenty-eight years, and fate has finally decided that she’s out of time.

 

—

 

He watches her disappear amidst the fighting, the sable curtain of her hair the last of her that holds his gaze before he loses sight of her, and it takes effort to drag his attention back to the battlefield; away from the memory of those dark eyes flashing, and the barbed tongue that had lashed out so unexpectedly.

 _I can watch my own back,_ and how many times has he considered those exact words? The sharp, no-nonsense lines of the handwriting, like a whip’s lash, and the mark as much a part of him as any one of his limbs. But in all his years he’d never once considered that the one those words belonged to would be _her._

She’d known—he’d seen it on her face, the dawning realisation that had made her anger bleed away so suddenly, leaving the briefest flicker of fear chasing across her features before she’d drawn her shields back up from where she’d let them slip. She’d known of the connection, even if he hadn’t had the chance to utter a single word, although he must have at some point, sealing her fate as surely as his own, although unawares.

And when she’d retreated he’d felt it—that curious _tug,_ as though at something just behind his breastbone; as though the spoken words had solidified something he’d only ever spared half a thought—the final piece to an age-old puzzle sliding into place, although he’d always thought it an antiquated concept. _Soulmates._

But the thought won’t leave him now that it’s taken root. Instead it follows him, a shadow all the way through the last leg of the battle, until the war is over, brought to an end between one breath and the next and leaving a grotesque tableau of unnecessary loss of life. And how many bonds were severed on that battlefield, he catches himself wondering, watching the number of casualties rising with every new head counted, and the bodies wrapped and laid out along the broken shoreline. How many had been born with words on their skin that would be the last they ever heard?

It’s not something he’s offered much consideration, in the four decades he’s carried the words that turned out to be hers. It had never been a priority, but it’s hard to shake the thought of her now; the rigid curve of her spine and the elegantly raised chin, as though she’d look down her nose at fate itself if given the chance.

And it’s…not impossible, he concedes after a while, and with amusement rather than displeasure — to see what might have been fate’s intention, in stringing two souls as different as theirs together.

Although, remembering that hard gaze, and her stubborn defiance, perhaps the truth is that they’re not as different as he’d first thought.

 

—

 

“Holy shit,” Shanks declares, before Mihawk has even had the chance to open his mouth. “You finally figured out who it is.”

He doesn’t bother asking how he can possibly tell, knowing already that he’s about to be given the answer, even before Shanks says, “We’ve known each other over twenty years, Hawk-Eyes. I’m pretty sure I can recognise all three of your expressions by now. Well—four. What would you call this one, ‘pensively smitten’?”

His grin is eating up his whole face, but Mihawk considers him where he stands, features a little harder than when they’d seen each other last, before the war, but then the world had been a different place, and he hadn’t had quite so much to lose. Now with a wife and child on the way there’s a new wariness in the way he holds himself, although his delight is, as always, a staggeringly genuine thing.

“The war changed many fates,” Mihawk says at length — the most he will reveal, he decides, even if he can see by the way Shanks’ expression practically lights up that it’s by no means the last he’ll hear of it.

And as though on cue — “ _C’mon_ ,” Shanks groans. “You have to give me more than that. I tell you things all the time!”

“Yes,” Mihawk agrees. “Against my wishes, usually.”

“I told you when I met mine,” Shanks counters.

“And I offered her my condolences, if you remember.”

“Hah! She laughed when I told her that, you know.” He grins, expression yielding some of its harder lines to softer, laughing ones, no doubt at the object of conversation. “But seriously, it’s only fair. Sharing is caring, Hawk-Eyes. I promise it won’t kill you.”

Mihawk offers a raised brow. “Where your assurances are concerned, I am usually inclined to disagree.”

“You have the _driest_ sense of humour this side of the Red Line, you know that?”

When he doesn’t answer, Shanks pouts; an expression better suited a man twenty years younger, but knowing he’s just as likely to stick his tongue out at the insinuation that he’s getting old, Mihawk keeps the observation to himself. Twenty years of rivalry-turned-reluctant-friendship has taught him a thing or two as well. Unfortunately.

The sigh he lets slip carries his reluctance with it. “She is—”

When he pauses, Shanks’ expression turns expectant. And entirely too amused. “Is…?”

He’s never been inarticulate, for all that he’s known for saying little. But it’s suddenly difficult, coming up with something that would do her character justice — that would say more than just the usual platitudes used to describe her. The fabled Pirate Empress, regarded by so many as the most beautiful woman in the world. Not a falsehood by any means, and yet—

“Singular,” Mihawk says at length, but where he expects laughter, all that greets his admission is a widening grin—although it’s a disconcertingly _knowing_ thing now.

“That’s like love poetry coming from you, isn’t it?”

A snort. “I doubt she would welcome the gesture, if that were the case,” Mihawk deadpans.

“Ah. Hard woman to please?”

At that, he smiles. “Hard woman.”

Shanks laughs. “He says, sounding entirely happy about it. Sheesh—look at you! You look ridiculous.” Then with a sigh, entirely dramatic, “I’m so proud.”

“I am leaving.”

“Hey—wait! You still haven’t told me who it is!”

 

—

 

He doesn’t seek her out at once.

It’s partly for her sake, remembering her reaction at Marineford, and knowing enough of her history to understand the likely reason behind it. But it’s also because he finds himself…otherwise occupied.

“Hey, where are you going?” Roronoa asks, glancing up from his squats, a sheer ludicrous number of which he insists on completing every morning.

“I will be away a few days,” Mihawk says simply, pausing in the doorway. “You will continue your training in the meantime.”

“You been called back to Headquarters? Or what’s left of it, anyway.”

“I expect to see improvement when I return,” Mihawk adds, ignoring the question, and sees from the grin stretching along Roronoa’s mouth that it was the wrong thing to say.

“ _Oho._ Not Headquarters, then.” And, arms crossed over his chest and squats forgotten, “Where are you really going, _Master_?”

There are few in his acquaintance who can get away with that amount of shameless cheek, and he must be getting old, Mihawk thinks, because he’s inclined to let him.

“A personal engagement,” he says at length. “That is all I will divulge on the matter.”

Roronoa’s grin doesn’t slip so much as an inch, but, “Mah,” he says, rotating his shoulder lazily. “I don’t really care, either way. Just make sure you’re ready to fight when you get back.”

“If I make it back,” Mihawk says, the wry remark slipping out entirely of its own volition, although it’s lost on the boy, along with the reason behind it — the particular destination he has in mind; a foolhardy venture for any man to even consider who values their health.

It is a small relief, Mihawk concedes wryly, that Shanks is not around to offer his thoughts on _that._

“What was that?”

“I said do not get lost. I might not make it back in time to collect you before you perish from neglect.”

“Oye!”

 

—

 

In the aftermath of the war, she does her best to avoid him — makes sure their paths don’t cross as she takes her leave at first opportunity, unwilling to linger for several reasons, but his presence being the most prominent. And once again there’s a whole sea between them, although despite her efforts the distance seems shorter than it used to, the knowledge that he’s no longer unaware greeting her with every furtive glance in the mirror, remembering her reflection caught in the dark metal of his sword, and the words that had pulled from within her where she’d so long kept them buried.

She arrives on Amazon Lily and she can breathe again. And as the days pass and the rest of the world begins the slow process of picking itself back up and dusting itself off, Hancock busies herself with more pressing matters — Luffy, and it’s a desperately welcome distraction, allowing her some peace of mind, at least during her waking hours. And as the days slowly crawl into weeks, then into long months, her dread softens into something kinder, brought on by the sudden realisation that she might not be the only one displeased with fate’s arrangement; that, given his reclusive nature and general indifference, Mihawk might be happy to just leave her be.

It gives her some comfort, and she begins to wonder if perhaps that was fate’s intention all along; that her soul should find its familiar, and with it, the mutual understanding to leave it at that. Because there has to be a  _reason —_ that of all the souls on the seas who’ve coveted her, body and soul, her own soul’s mate should be one that desires neither.

Her heart settles somewhat with that, and it’s not animosity she feels when she considers him now, the few times she allows her mind to follow that line of thought. Instead it’s something almost kindred, and that makes her wonder how he feels about it — that it should be hers, of all the souls in the world. But she doesn’t count on ever getting an answer.

In hindsight…she probably should have given him more credit.

Arriving in her private quarters one night, hair drying from her bath and her feet bare, it’s a testament to how comfortable she is within the promised safety of her home that she doesn’t even notice the presence at once.

And he doesn’t even make a point of hiding, or to turn around at her approach, standing casually-as-you-please in the middle of her bedchamber, as though it’s not a blatant and outrageous violation of one of the oldest laws of her people.

And it’s entirely redundant, because she can’t imagine that he doesn’t know, and if she hadn’t been quite so taken aback Hancock might have said something different, but—

“No man is allowed to set foot on this island,” she says, and is relieved that at least her voice falls with command, even as she tries to calm her heart from the somersault it had proceeded to make at the sight of him in her quarters.

He turns towards her at the declaration, every movement deliberate and made entirely without haste, and there’s something infuriating about his apparent ease that makes her hands clench, although — anger is better than fear, and she latches onto it now with every ounce of strength and stubborn defiance she can dredge up.

“How did you get in?” she asks then, when he’s made no move to respond, although given his usual economy of speech she’s not surprised she has to demand answers, even if he is the one trespassing.

A dark brow arches, and Mihawk spares a glance to the balcony at his back, the doors thrown wide open; a freedom to keep them so that she’s never once questioned, before he declares coolly, “Your royal retinue leaves something to be desired.”

Something  _lurches_  within her, and her breath almost leaves her, fury making her voice a whip, “You didn’t—”

“I am quite capable of stealth,” he tells her, cutting her off before she can put words to the accusation, the remark holding an odd sort of dryness she wouldn’t have thought him capable of, even as she finds a promise there — that she’ll find no blood on his blade if she were to check.

Heart having settled from its leap into her throat, she’s suddenly tempted to tell him that you wouldn’t think it, garish outfit taken into consideration, along with a sword that shouldn’t allow for even a modicum of stealth. But she swallows the remark before it can take shape, because she refuses to meet his infringement of her privacy with anything but absolute contempt.

“What are you doing here?” she asks instead. She hasn’t moved from where she’d come to a stop in her surprise, just beyond the doors to her quarters, but then neither has he, and there are several steps left yawing between them. If she were to call for her guards, Hancock doubts he’d be able to cover the distance in time.

Or—at least she hopes so, pitiful as that feeling suddenly seems, considering his apparent ease at infiltrating both her island and her palace. Although he doesn’t seem inclined to make any advances towards her, regarding her calmly from across the chamber, and Hancock doesn’t know what to make of it — the fact that she can’t seem to read his intentions. If he’d come with the most obvious thing in mind, he would have taken out her guards, and whoever else had crossed his path. And he wouldn’t be wasting time  _talking,_  unless she’s completely underestimated his arrogance.

“You are a difficult woman to get a hold of,” he tells her then, offering a fleeting glance to the opulent chamber around him, as though only now making note of it. It’s a magnificent room, but his gaze only lingers for a moment, before he’s turned it back on her.

And it lives up to its reputation, she decides — that hawk-like gaze.

“I make it a point to be,” she shoots back. Her initial surprise having relented its grip, she’s steeled herself now, bare heels planted firmly and her back straight. If he does make a move towards her, it won’t be to find her caught off her guard.

She thinks she might have caught the corner of his mouth lifting, but dismisses it as a trick of the torchlight. And he still hasn’t moved — not so much as an inch, his entire posture speaking of an ease that makes her attempted show of authority seem awkward at best, for all that it’s her private quarters, in  _her_  palace, where she is Empress.

The moisture from her hair has begun to seep into the silk of her robe, making the fabric cling to her skin, but his gaze doesn’t even slip from where it’s focused on hers. And there’s an incredulous sort of laugh threatening at the base of her throat, because she doesn’t know what to make of any of it — not the words on her skin or _him_ , his character and sudden presence, or how it all fits together.

“I can see what you are thinking,” Mihawk says then, the remark dragging her attention back from where she’d let it drift, despite her efforts at keeping her guard up. “It’s not why I am here.”

“Then why are you?” And she doesn’t care that she sounds more tired than angry now, and that without her anger her shoulders sit, slack beneath the heavy weight of her damp hair. She’s not wearing any jewels, and she doubts she looks the part of Empress now, clad in nothing but her sleepwear. Perhaps that had even been his intention, in seeking her out here of all places — to catch her at her most vulnerable, or at least what a man might assume would be her most vulnerable.

Those strange eyes are still holding hers, as though searching for something, and she wonders how many have cowered before that look.

Well. She won’t be one of them. And she wonders if he finds that conviction on her face, because she has the distinct impression that he’s _pleased_ , even though his own hasn’t so much as twitched.

“Call it curiosity,” he says at length, voice entirely level, although there’s a hint of that wryness from before that she can’t seem to reconcile with what she knows of his character.

She sniffs. “What a perfectly human weakness. And here I thought someone like you would be above those.”

He looks at her, and for a moment it’s like he  _knows_  — like he sees her for someone else than what she is; or at least, what she pretends to be, and, “I could say the same,” he offers back.

She doesn’t dignify that with a response, although he doesn’t appear to be expecting one, and, “You know why I am here,” he says then. “You have known for some time.” But his expression lets nothing slip of what he thinks about that, even as he asks, “How long?”

Part of her thinks she should feel insulted that he doesn’t remember the first words he spoke to her, but she’s beyond trying to make sense of what she feels when it comes to this man. And she’s too tired for games, and to keep up a charade of pretending to be ignorant. There’s really no use — not when she’s standing before him, clad in her sleeping robe and with no shields left to put up that he wouldn’t see through in a second.

And so she doesn’t say anything, only reaches up to push her hair over one shoulder, baring her neck as she turns to let him see.

And it’s a momentousgesture, she realises a second later. Not just drawing her hair away, leaving her back with nothing but the thin material of her robe to cover the brand sitting further down. But if that’s significant for her, turning your back to a swordsman holds an entirely different kind of significance for him, and she  _feels_  it, in the weight of the gaze that lands on her back.

But she doesn’t question the reason for her decision, or the certainty behind it, even as she hears the footsteps approaching, his presence almost palpable, and she ignores the shiver that shoots up her spine, and the goosebumps rising on her skin. The torchlight throws his shadow large against the floor, and she’s acutely aware of her own heartbeat, steady and loud in her ears.

He doesn’t reach out to touch her, although he might as well have for how she feels the caress of that gaze, but she forces her breath to sit still in her chest, and for her shoulders to relax.

A sound that might have been a laugh escapes him, but it’s slipped from her grasp before she can catch it. “Ah,” he says, and he’s so close the deep baritone of his voice resonates within her. “Not words you are used to hearing, I take it.”

Turning back, it’s to find him less than an arm’s length away, and something like amusement has kindled in that sharp gaze as she gives a restless tug at her hair. “Anyone would be hard-pressed to expect flattery from you,” Hancock counters. Then, nose lifted, “And your opinion doesn’t change what I am.”

His features remain entirely unreadable, and she doesn’t know what she expects his response to be, but, “Good,” he says. “It shouldn’t.”

The purse of her mouth gives away more than she wants to. “If you think your indifference to my appearance rankles, Dracule Mihawk, you are more arrogant than I thought.”

Oh, there’s definitely amusement there now, sitting in the quirk of a single, dark brow. “I never claimed I was indifferent.”

Hancock sniffs. “Your aversion, then.”

Something like a scoff escapes him at that. “A laughable notion.”

“Oh? Singing a different tune now?” The look she offers is appropriately withering. “I don’t know why I expected anything else.”

She tries not to think about the fact that she _is_  disappointed — that he should turn out to be like every other man. And what’s worse, that she’d actually considered the possibility that he might not be — that he might somehow be different.

“Not a different tune,” he says, and before she can protest, “And not because of the mark,” he adds, although not defensively; just a calm statement of fact. “I’d be a fickle man if that were the case.”

“I’ve yet to meet one who doesn’t fit that description,” Hancock retorts, even as a name sits, perched on her tongue— _Luffy—_ but she tucks it away before she can speak it.

Mihawk considers her a moment — not the leering or openly appreciative consideration she’s used to, although it’s no less intimate.

“Our first meeting,” he says then. “You carried yourself with confidence, although I had yet to find the reason for it. When I gathered that the reason was your appearance, I was surprised. Perhaps a little disappointed.”

The pause that follows is laden, and she wonders if he expects her to answer, and if so, what he expects her to say.

But even if he doesn’t expect anything at all — “A woman with confidence in her strength stands out more than one confident in what the world perceives to be her selling attribute,” she says.

The word  _selling_  is deliberate, but then she has no doubt that he knows about that part of her past.

“They believe what they want to believe,” she adds with a shrug. Then, and with a flicker of self-satisfaction, “ _You_  did.”

His smirk is a brief thing. “An effective strategy,” he agrees. “If you don’t stir the waters, your tribe avoids unnecessary scrutiny from the Government.”

She studies him for a moment, her next words heavy on her tongue. Then, carefully gauging his reaction now, “Some would call that cowardice,” Hancock says.

“You are no coward.”

There wasn’t a second of hesitation before that remark, and she doesn’t even bother to hide her surprise this time.

But, “No,” she says. “I’m not.” Another shrug, and she pretends it doesn’t feel as heavy as it does. “I am Empress before I am a Warlord,” she declares, and offers no further explanation, although something tells her she doesn’t have to. Duty is not a foreign concept to him, although for the life of her, she can’t even guess at what might be his.

Then, because his words had sparked something old and defiant within her, “But I  _am_  beautiful,” she adds, with another tug at her hair.

Mihawk is quiet, and there’s an old fear that tells her to be wary — that all her work will have been for nothing if he brings this to their employers. Although watching him now, Hancock can’t let go of the strange certainty that he won’t.

“Beauty _is_  a relative concept,” he says then, and in hearing them a second time, she feels the echo of the first — an almost physical reaction, and she fights down the shiver it prompts. “But I never claimed you were anything else. I simply don’t find it in the arrangement of physical features.”

Part of her doesn’t want to ask — doesn’t want to admit that she is curious, even if she knows he can probably tell. And it’s not like there’s any use trying to go back now — to that mutual agreement of existing without acknowledging each other’s presence. It’s too late for that, although she doesn’t know what they are now, or will be, after this.

And it’s probably not making things any easier for herself, she knows, even before she asks, “And what is it that you find beautiful, Hawk-Eyes?”

The epithet makes the corner of his mouth lift, the barest hint of good humour, but she has the sudden thought that he might smile more often than his usual reticence suggests.

“An unbending will,” he tells her, and despite herself, Hancock feels her breath catch.

Then, dryly, those golden eyes never leaving hers, “A stubborn streak,” he adds, and it’s an effort not to let her reaction show this time, even as something keenly  _pleased_ curls up behind her ribcage.

“A short list,” she retorts, and doesn’t know why she makes it sound like a challenge.

His gaze doesn’t drop from hers, and she’s acutely aware of her breath, the lightness of it, and the laden weight that’s settled between them.

“A quiet soul,” he says then, and her traitorous heart proceeds to skip a beat in her chest.

But she releases a laugh — a curiously hard sound, given how breathless she feels. “Mine is hardly that.”

She doesn’t think she imagines the smile this time, brief as it is. “Most sailors know the heart of a tempest is usually quiet.”

And whatever it might have been, her response dies on her tongue. And she doesn’t know what to say to that, because she’s suffered her share of flattery in her life to recognise the intention behind it, but from his entire posture to his inflections, he doesn’t appear to be asking for anything.

“You are remarkable,” he tells her then, and once again there’s nothing in his voice that hints at flattery; instead it’s just spoken as fact, simple and without embellishment. “But not for your looks.”

The silence that pools between them on the heels of that assertion leaves her short of breath, and there’s a moment where she wonders what she might have done, if she’d been a different woman; if she doled out her trust as effortlessly as some people, and looked for good things in the hearts of others before she looked for the bad.

It’s impossible to ignore just how close he’s standing, the warm weight of his presence unavoidable, and with her thin robe and the evening breeze creeping in from outside it’s an entirely compelling warmth, when she’s been cold for so long.

“I will see myself out,” Mihawk says then, and the moment shatters with enough force that it leaves her reeling.

The words are out of her mouth before she can drag them back, flung out with enough force to bounce between the pillars of her bedchamber, “Just like that?”

The fact that he doesn’t mention her reaction is a small relief. “Were you expecting a serenade?”

“I’d have your tongue cut out before you hit the first note.”

A laugh — a short but starkly genuine thing. “A threat I’m inclined to believe,” he says. But he’s moving towards the balcony now, and Hancock doesn’t know why she doesn’t just let him go; why her instant response is to grapple for something that would prompt him to stay a little longer.

“You won’t get far.”

He stops, and she catches the edge of his smirk when he inclines his head. “Are you issuing a challenge, Pirate Empress?”

“A fact,” she retorts. “If I alert the guards.”

“And will you?”

The fact that it’s a genuine question makes her pause, and for a moment she doesn’t know what to say — doesn’t know what she  _wants_  to say.

“I don’t have to,” she says at length, righting her shoulders. “I alone am more than capable.”

The look he gives her hints at a private joke, and, “So you’ve told me,” Mihawk agrees. “Although not in those exact words.”

She has the sudden urge to ask — to demand to see his mark; her own words, written on his skin. She wonders where it is, and what it looks like, and if it feels different now that he knows who she is. She wants to  _ask_ , but doesn’t, suddenly afraid of what his response might be — that it might be what she hopes; that her soul has left a lasting impression on such an unflappable creature.

And she doesn’t know why she cares, or what it will bring her to pursue this. Nothing good, if the world has taught her anything about what happens to the needlessly curious.

Her sigh falls then, heavier than she would have liked, and, “Just go,” she says. “I won’t stop you.”

But he doesn’t go — not at once, and for a moment she wonders if he’s about to speak, but shoves down the sprig of anticipation before it’s had time to take root.

“I had wondered,” Mihawk says then, the words musing, although the glimpse she catches of his face is unreadable as ever. “Who it would be.”

She can’t tell what he means by that — if the remark suggests displeasure at the discovery, or something else. And his response doesn’t so much as hint at where his mark might be hidden, and the implication doesn’t exactly  _help_  — the realisation that it must be somewhere it would require a far more intimate setting to discover.

And she should just let him walk away, but once again her curiosity gets the better of her, and before she can stop herself she’s asking, “And is your curiosity sated, now that you know?”

The look he gives her could almost be called teasing, if she didn’t find the notion completely ridiculous, but, “Is yours?” he asks. And without waiting for a response he’s making for the balcony again, leaving her where she is, standing in the middle of her bedchamber.

It takes her a moment to realise that she’s gaping, and then another to clamp her mouth shut. And she doesn’t know if it’s a frustrated shriek that’s pushing against her throat or a laugh, or even which is the preferable alternative, given her otherwise tongue-tied state.

But her heart sits, curiously light in her chest, and he hasn’t made it to the balcony yet when the idea strikes her — a curiously playful impulse, and she seizes it before she’s had time to question where it comes from.

“ _Guards!_ ” she calls, the word bouncing off the pillars and the far walls of her quarters, the command sitting in it ringing loud as a bell, and when he glances over his shoulder it’s a wicked smirk that greets him.

“It’s a long way to the shoreline,” Hancock says, turning on her heel, damp hair fanning out, and lifting a single hand in a parting wave. “I would start running if I were you. Although they leave something to be desired, the entirety of my retinue should pose a challenge. Even for you.”

She catches the muttered oath disappearing under his breath, and he’s gone when she glances over her shoulder, not so much as a footstep to mark his departure. But it’s not her imagination, Hancock thinks — the deep sliver of a laugh that drifts back towards her through the open doors, and that stays long after he’s gone.

 

—

 

He escapes, slipping past her guards and an entire island of trained hunters like a shadow, much to everyone’s bafflement, but Hancock isn’t surprised, although it does take a surprising amount of effort to feign her displeasure with her retinue.

They tell her to close her balcony doors in the future, just to be sure. They’ve never had this problem before, but first it was Luffy-kun, and now a stranger, and who might it be next?

“You must be careful, Hime-sama,” one of her retainers tells her, tone caught between chagrin and unease. “The world is changed, after the war. Just think about what could have happened!”

Oh she has, and at length. But she nods along, and assures them she will be careful, even as they make arrangements to increase the number of guards around the palace. That he’d find a way around it she doesn’t doubt for a second, but it’s not fear she feels at the prospect now — rather the opposite. And she thinks about his parting words— _Is yours?—_ and the invitation she’d found in them, offered with a challenge, although she probably shouldn’t have expected anything less, coming from him.

And that it is in fact an offering and not an expectation is something else that doesn’t surprise her, mulling over the words, like she’d once used to with those written on her skin, although this is different — the choice taken out of fate’s hands, and put into her own. And it’s more freedom than she knows what to do with, after a whole life spent expecting something quite different.

And even if it’s not quite her heart—not yet, at least; maybe never—she finds she’s not beyond giving him a chance. And so she leaves her answer unspoken, knowing he’ll recognise it for what it is.

A palace full of guards, and her balcony doors thrown open, as wide as they will go.

 


End file.
